


give me a taste (of what it's like to be next to you)

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Euro 2016, Fluff and Smut, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>being late for practice is something foreign to marc, but today he doesn't mind.</p><p>oh no, he doesn't mind <i>at all</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me a taste (of what it's like to be next to you)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted for them in what feels like 84 years, so here I am.
> 
> I've resurfaced. <3 
> 
> I have a prompt for Andre/Antoine, and I'll get to that soon. c:

    Warmth encases the hotel room that consists of numerous luggage bags stuffed to the hilt with clothing as well as a variety of other essentials. Two out of the three windows are opened to allow the rarest of cool breezes that manages to aimlessly flip the pages of the book the blond currently has opened on his nightstand. There is a laptop resting flat upon the comforter of his neatly-made bed, as well as a cup of coffee resting on a tiny porcelain plate beside it, probably not in the most safe of positions.

    Currently the blond is boredly flickering through channels for any sign of decent television that the limited cable in the hotel will allow. Eventually he lets the screen rest upon an all-french program that happens to have English subtitles at the bottom, for that he is grateful. He reaches for the plate, lifting it up as well as the cup on top of it, and brings it to his lips with a soft hum.

    It hardly has enough sugar, though he supposes it's healthier this way, but he figures that it's at least bearable so he continues to take measured sips. Then he hears footfalls approaching the ajar door, feels the hint of a smile form upon his lips, as he glances up to meet the sight of a fellow German.

    "You know the rest of the team is downstairs having breakfast, right?" He leans casually in the door frame, canting his head curiously to the side. "I took it upon myself as the nice guy I am to let you know, the rest of the guys were too busy humoring Thomas."

    Marc takes another sip of the lukewarm coffee before placing both porcelain sets onto the nigh stand, offering a small smile. "Hey, sorry about that. It's just—I wanted to be alone for a minute, I guess? What happened with Thomas this time?"

    Bernd offers him a calculative look, eyes narrowing slightly, before he offers a soft laugh. "Believe me when I say you don't want to know, just think about hula hoops, honey, and Basti. That's all you need to know."

    Confusion overwhelms the blond who shifts upon the bed, tucking one leg beneath him, then bringing up a hand to rub at his chin. "I don't get why he would need any of those things?"

    "I told you already, you don't want to know, man." 

    "But now I'm sort of—" Amor de Chocolate fills the entirety of the room, pale cheeks flushing deeply as the lyrics of the song assault his eardrums, thankful for the fact that Bernd knew not a word in Portuguese. "Uh—.." He pats along the comforters for the phone, already aware of the the identity of the caller, finding it hidden beneath the sheets and tucked beneath his pillow.

    "Who's that? And what's up with the song?"

    The blond lifts a finger then brings it to his lips to silence the blond, who quirks a brow but ultimately remains silent. He hurriedly mashes the button upon the screen with a thumb then brings it to his ear, smiling to himself already, even before he can hear the latter's voice. Bernd continues to stare at him from the doorway, arms crossed across his broad chest, rolling his eyes.

    "Took you forever to answer," scolds the Brazilian male from the other line though the amusement within his tone is evident. "What are you doing, Marquinho? Meu deus, I miss you so much. And did you hear? Brazil got knocked out of the Copa and we're all pissed—Oh, and congratulations on that win the other day, I was so proud even if you were on the bench the entire time."

    Despite the initial disappointment of not being able to play, even though he had been expecting it, he still manages to chuckle into the receiver and temporarily ignore Bernd's lingering presence. "I left my phone under my pillow and it took me a minute to get it, it's not like I didn't know it was you. You still have that stupid ring tone you set—"

    "—it's not stupid, you're into it, don't lie."

    Another chuckle spews from the blond as he runs slender fingers throughout neatly trimmed blond locks, ruffling and mussing them up in a bashful motion. "Well yeah, but it's hard not to be, not when you got Thiago to translate it into German for me." 

    "What's the word again? In German? For fuck?"

    Wince. Cerulean hues glance toward Bernd, who motions for him to hurry up, then releases a sigh. He cups a hand over the receiver, spares another glance at the blond, before awkwardly clearing his throat. "I think you mean," he lowers his voice: "ficken."

    "Ficken?" Coughs out the blond from the doorway, eyes nearly bulging. "Who are you talking to about that?"

    "I always knew you were into people hearing us on the phone like this, Marquinho." snickers Rafinha from the other line, "Shame on you for not telling me you weren't alone. Who is it? That other tall and blond German? The one that everyone thinks is hot for you?"

    "You mean Bernd?"

    "That's his name, yeah."

    Aforementioned blond's brows raise near his hairline at the mention, head canting once more, but Marc doesn't pay him any attention. Instead he motions a hand in his direction and waves dismissively, to which he receives an agitated groan, hearing rather seeing the blond retreat. The German makes a mental note to apologize for that later, it was just hard to offer his full attention when the Brazilian he had been missing for what seemed like months finally contacted him.

    "You're not into him, are you?" comes the accusing voice, can hear the rustling of sheets in the background.

    "What? No? What makes you think that?"

    "Just making sure the only man you're thinking about is me, don't have any problems reminding you of that either."

    Marc, intrigued, smiles to himself once more. "You don't have to call for me to think about you, I do it nearly every second of every day and even distance can't stop that."

    Despite the fact that he can't see the latter, he can tell that wherever he was, he was smiling and blushing to himself. "I think about you a lot too, 'specially since I got hurt. Again."

    "Speaking of that, are you alright? I saw that video you posted on Instagram, you know the one."

    "Oh, that." Another litany of laughter fills the phone as he hears the audible shift upon a mattress. "Yeah, yeah. I posted that for you, y'know, figured you needed a little something for those sleepless nights where you'd rather touch yourself to thoughts of me than actually fall asleep."

    One absent hand reaches out to shut the laptop, closing it with a hushed click, then shoving it to the side. He shifts more comfortably upon the bed until his legs are stretched out, his head resting on the pillow, an arm tucked neatly beneath it. "I don't really have time for any of that, Rafa. Plus I room with Bernd and he's just in the other room, he would hear, and that would just make everything awkward."

    "Is he still here right now or—? Because if not, then we can solve this problem right now."

    That ignites something deep and dormant within the blond as he wriggles upon the bed in anticipation. "Oh, uh—No, no he's not here, he left a little while ago. I, uh, what did you have in mind? Exactly?"

    "Get comfortable and I'll tell you about this dream I had the other night. Just listen to my voice, okay? Tune everything else out and don't say a word. Understand?"

    He takes a deep gulp, unconsciously nodding his head: "I do, yeah. I understand."

    "Close your eyes," and he does. "It was last night, and I had this fantasy that I went with you to the Euro, I didn't play obviously but you let me hide out in your hotel room for a while. I had a dream I had on your Die Mannschaft kit, nothing else, was laid out across your bed touching myself to the thought of you. Your eyes, how you look at me, thinking about how good your hands feel against my skin—"

    "—Wait—"

    "Wait what?"

    Instead of responding the blond spares a glance toward the open window, hoping a cool breeze would blow and soothe his already heated skin, but knew it was just wishful thinking. He manages to balance the phone between his ear and shoulder while he occupies his hands with easing out of the black joggers he was currently sporting, tugging them down to pool at his ankles, then taking hold of the cell phone once more.

    "Sorry, I just—Keep going, please?"

    Silence is what he's met with, at least for a few seconds, before the Brazilian releases a pleased hum. "I was there, legs open, one hand on my dick while the other was stretching myself open. There's just something about your eyes, Marquinho," there's a soft grunting noise: "you look at me like I'm the only person in the world and that—that makes me.. _Feel_.. Just makes me feel, y'know?"

    Marc wants to respond with 'I know,' but he can't seem to utter the words, not with the way ivory teeth are buried deep within a thin lower lip. Instead he fondles himself through cotton briefs, offering his cock a squeeze through the material, just allowing his fingers to apply gentle pressure to the head where he settles with circling it with the pad of his thumb.

    "I only had one finger at first," he hears the sharp intake of a breath then unconsciously maneuvers his hand to firmly grasp his hardening cock firmly: "but then I needed more, one doesn't cut it, not when you're so fucking big. Needed to feel full, not even two fingers was enough."

    Behind clenched eyelids plays out the scene: there the tanned man is splayed across the beige sheets of his bed, toned thighs spread and open, two thick fingers pressed into the tight heat of him while his hand works on stroking his cock. Can practically envision the sight of pretty, chocolate hues fluttering open and closed, see the way he goes from biting at his lips then leaving them slightly parted to offer soft puffs of hot air.

    "Then—then, fuck.." croaks the Brazilian. The blond thinks he can hear the wet and sloppy sound of the latter pleasuring himself, feels his cock harden unbearably, to the point where the tiny briefs are suddenly too snug around him. "Then you come in and you look at me, you watch me, then you bite your lips.."

    And Marc does just that as he uses his free hand to peel beneath the material to palm at the head of his cock, thumb brushing tenderly against it, until finally beads of pre-cum form to lightly coat the pad of his digit. Eyes open, half-lidded, to gaze at the still ajar door but can't find the decency to stop the movements that his hand continue to make upon his flushed cock, can barely even fathom the thought.

    "You just came from practice, you're still panting and sweaty, but the look you give me.." He offers a humorless chuckle as the sloppy sound heightens in volume which is followed by a shaky moan. "You take off your shirt, then your joggers, but you don't come to me like I want you to," growls the brunet from deep within his throat: "you bastard. you just—you just stand there and pull out your cock, then you don't look away, you just stand there watching me and touching yourself."

    He swears can see that as well behind his lids. There was nothing sexier than watching the brunet get off in front of him; the throaty sounds he makes, the sinful noises that the combination of his fist and pre-cum make as he strokes himself, how desperately his hips buck when he catches Marc's eye. But he glances bashfully away, cheeks painting a rosy color, as he spreads his legs open to give the blond an eyeful of what he has to offer.

    "You tell me to keep fucking my fingers, to keep prepping myself for you, to curl my fingers like—like _that_." keening noises emanate from the other line and Marc finds himself groaning outwardly as he finally wraps a hand firmly around his cock, beginning to steadily move his hand and flick his wrist upon the upstroke.

    "M-more, Rafa... Mein gott.. And you're doing it all, right now, just for me?" croaks the German as he speeds the hand on his cock up an increment, allowing his hips to buck shamelessly off the bed and into the tight fist his hand makes. "I need you, you feel so much better than my hand.. So hot, so tight.."

    Filthy moans echo from the other line, the brunet going temporarily silent, the only sound being the mewls and panting he makes. Just the sound is enough for the blond, at least for now, as he discards the phone beside his head. Now that that hand is free, he uses it to roam beneath his shirt, allowing cool fingertips to glide along the contours of his abdomen.

    He traces one of the defined abs with the bluntness of his nail, scratching along the smooth skin there, before gliding further up his chest where he finds a pert bud. Fingers graze the rosy bud, tracing a small circle around it, before pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, eliciting an elated gasp.

    It's echoed almost simultaneously from Rafinha, who's labored breathing is lingering within his eardrums, can practically hear the Brazilian reaching his peak. "I flipped you over, d-didn't I?" Weakly mutters Marc, who usually isn't one for dirty talk, as he continues to tweak and abuse his nipples. "And you lifted that perfect ass up in the air for me and you—fuck, you—.." he takes a moment to collect both his thoughts and his breath as he increases the speed of his hand, squeezing as he moves his fist down to the base of his cock: "you took all of me at once, didn't you?"

    He doesn't receive a response, only a breathy whimper; he smirks smugly to himself as he continues the steady stroke of his cock. "You felt so good," whines the Brazilian, "You a-always do.. Had me cumming s-so hard for you.."

    "You're gonna cum for me again, aren't you?"

    "M-Marc.."

    And he thinks rather than says 'yes, my name, please keep saying it.' Silent prayers are answered in the form of his name repeated in a mantra by Rafinha who apparently can't hold onto the reigns of pleasure any longer. First he hears a soft squeak, one that's soon followed by outstretched moans, can hear the sloppy wet sound increase in volume. 

    Marc allows the sounds to remain embedded at the forefront of his mind as he arches his hips off the bed, hand sporadically pumping his cock, teeth embedding deeply within his lower lip. Like that he releases within the fist his hand makes, hand tightening around the head of his cock, surrounding it in hot, tight warmth that is nothing compared to the man that he manages to trick his mind into thinking it was.

    Ivory spurts spill within the tightness of his fist, coating his lower abdomen, staining a small portion of the sheets. Eyes remain clenched tightly shut, hips still arched awkwardly from the bed, the hand beneath his shirt painfully pinching at one thoroughly abused nipple. Blissful haze soon overtakes his vision when he finally opens his eyes, gaze focused on the alabaster white ceiling, or what he thinks is white—it's the only visible color right now, one that's blinding him.

    He hears heavy breathing from the other end of the line, and smiles to himself. He did that. He takes a smug pride in the fact as he tries to control the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He withdraws the hand from beneath his shirt to cup at his balls, kneading them within his palm, as he leisurely comes down from the high he had experienced.

    "Y-you still there?" weakly inquires the Brazilian who seems to have his breathing under control, though the drowsy yawn he offers speaks volumes on his stamina. 

    Marc wets his dry lips, though there's barely any moisture left within his mouth, then nods his head. He flushes scarlet, if that were even physically possible, as he realizes that the brunet can't see his action. "I—Yeah, I'm here, I'm just—Give me a second?"

    "A second, yeah." Chuckles. "You'll need more than that, I think. How about you take five?"

    "No! I mean, no. Just—I'm here, meu amor." His pale nose crinkles in disdain as sets the phone down for a moment to tug the now soiled shirt over his head, using it to clean up the mess as best as he could. Then he finds himself picking up the phone once more, offering a content sigh.

    "You know I love you, right?"

    "Of course, yeah. And I love you too, more than you could even imagine." 

    Thoughtful silence. "Even though you probably missed the start of practice?"

    Startled, the blond glances toward the nightstand where a simple digital clock rests, groaning to himself when he realizes it's past eleven in the morning. He mentally face-palms but finds himself bubbling with laughter nonetheless. Soon he's joined in by a more than amused Rafinha, who seemed to find something funny in every situation.

    "I know it's hard to believe, but I like spending time with you. Even if it's just over the phone. More than I love even playing for the national team."

    "You mean that?"

    "Do you honestly think I would lie to you?"

    "No, not really, no. It's just.. The national team, it's sort of a big deal, just like the Brazil team is to me." explains the Brazilian, though he sounds completely out of it, blabbering on. "So that must mean I mean a lot to you, and that makes me feel so good on the inside, like—Like how you feel when you've downed three beers in a row then get all giggly."

    "I don't giggle, Rafa."

    "You're such a liar."

    Marc snickers to himself as he presses a palm into the bed, using it for leverage as he rights himself into a seated position. He glances at the clock once more, frowning at the sight of the minutes ticking by. "I really do need to go to practice though, before coach sends someone in to check on me."

    "Or you could skip practice entirely and we can just talk, I miss that. Just us laying down and talking all day and night about everything."

    "I really want to, you have no idea. I really want to tell you about all the things I've seen here in Paris, it's just so nice and quiet all the time."

    "No, hey. Just go, okay? Call me right after practice and we'll talk about you taking lame pictures by the Eiffel Tower and shoving your face with baguettes."

    Lips twitch with a sad smile as he tosses the soiled shirt from the bed and into a small hamper that rests upon the floor filled with dirty laundry. "Sorry, meu amor. I mean it. I'll call you the second it ends and we'll talk as long as you want. I promise."

    "I'll hold you to it. Break this promise and I won't send you this gift I bought you from when I was in America." 

    "Deal."

    "Eu te amo."

    "Ich liebe dich, auch." 

    Audible footfalls, one's that seem to be jogging by the sound of it, echo toward the bedroom and the blond fumbles for the sheets or whatever is closest to cover himself from prying eyes. But it's all to no avail as another young member of the squad speeds to a halt a foot past the open door, eyes going wide, clearly bewildered by the sight he's met with.

    Pale hands go to shield his eyes, shaking his head to himself. "I was, um—Bernd told me to go get you before you get yelled at, I just didn't expect you to—.. This is awkward. Can you please just put some clothes on then come to practice? I'm gonna go, just.. Clothes. Please. And don't forget your gloves." Like that, Draxler attempts to flee the room, hands still covering his eyes.

    "Err.. Thanks, Jules."

    Maybe he should just stay in for the day.

**Author's Note:**

> you know the dealio homies. lemme know how i did, please?


End file.
